Somewhere else still, he heard screaming. An argument. All this bothered him greatly
but decided to let it pass. He feared what might happen, and anyway effort meant something.

Kyle’s rage was hungry. He went to his pantry to choke down some aspirin
(not really aspirin, but some weird green pills), then the refrigerator to chug down a coke can. Then, bored, decided to watch
some T.V. Slobby and lazy, he stared—zoned-out, zombie-like, at nothing.

That is how he felt, with the exception of the rage, which decided to stick around.

A little later, Kyle Mylan cooked spaghetti, scarfed it down and picked at a second
serving.

He killed another coke.

All the while various noises continued with fellow apartment dwellers—music
thumping and argumental screaming.

He was unsure of how things would play out.

He now went upstairs, hungry yet again.

He tried to control himself and try for a peaceful discussion.

All-the-while, his mouth sprayed wetness and his mouth became a grim, straight
knife wound.

But he made the one flight of stairs up to the screaming room.

The door was open and he peeked in.

The couple was in there, still screaming.

He walked in on them then and his rage became someone (something) else. It walked
beside him. A slavering, mindless, slaughter-minded super-beast.

The rage told Kyle to go downstairs while the people were being…taken care
of. Rage laughed, a low-pitched demonic and disturbing sound.

Rage gripped the screaming man. Rage extended his brutally ill-maintained and lengthy
bone-claws. Rage took a moment to rip off the man’s face, blood spraying quite a bit but dripping all over. Rage licked
the man’s chin and chucked the still spasming body out the window.

The woman screamed and screamed and ran.

Rage followed and plunged his lethal hand into her thick chest and ripped out her
still beating heart.

Rage laughed.

***

In his room, Kyle saw the blood-dripping, pooling from the ceiling.

He went to the fridge and took some more aspirin, which was not really aspirin.

Then he remembered the music thumping, now some stupid song about “rollin’.”

Rage was already on it.

Rage knocked politely for a change at music-man’s door and then Rage stomped
in when the door opened.

Rage was making music of his own…

Rage was full.

Copyright Faraz Khaja 2004

Khaja has arrived
slowly but surely through sheer will. Faraz has been a reader from the age of two, a horror-movie fan since Kindergarten,
and a writer since his Sophomore Year in High-school. He loves to psych people out and/or scare the crap out of them whenever
opportunities arise. He is that damn good because he is the real deal (just try riding on Great America's Eagle, Batman, Raging
Bull, and Superman with eyes open the whole way with hands off the restraints). He even has an edgy, dark novel-in-progress
(clue: some boys-next-door are turning Illinois into a killing ground). Over the Summer, he worked for a Chicago-Hospital's
Public Affairs Department as Copy-Editor of its newsletter. He is now a Junior in University of Illinois at Chicago. He can
be contacted at Mountainman184@yahoo.com.. For all his Superman attributes he is human and he does want to see his work wherever possible, as he has a very charitable
nature: he wants to give readers and fans the best plane, bathroom, or bed-time reading experience possible.